The Santa Ana’s have been coming in for days now. Even though it’s mid-September and five o’clock in the morning, and I’m standing on the street facing the ocean, I already feel the heat radiating from everywhere. Or maybe it’s my imagination, because I fucked everything up and I’m feeling the proverbial heat. I don’t have a clue.

I wish I smoked. Right now, I feel like a cigarette would complete this whole scene.

I’m standing outside of a swanky boutique hotel that boasts the name El Camino Del Mar – it’s so Orange County it makes me want to puke. Its name is lit up from the rooftop in bright red neon. I can hear the humming of the electricity, and the roar of the ocean and nothing much beyond that aside from a crew of workers setting up the breakfast buffet that are compliments of the recently married Mr. and Mrs. Camelleri. The sound of porcelain cups and plates being stacked creates a chiming melody against the roaring ocean, thrumming bass of my heartbeat, and humming electricity. It sounds pleasant, but it’s not.

I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours now, and my life is so very fucked, and it’s not just because I’m fucking exhausted.

The large, heavy glass doors of the hotel are propped open and the smell of freshly brewing coffee and fresh baked goods as they are carted in is all very inviting. The brightness of the lobby is spilling out with the trendy ambient techno music playing perpetually over the speakers. The lobby has doors facing the coast and doors facing the busy main drag of the portentous beach town. During the day, the front of the hotel has an undercurrent of street noise. But now, even though the doors are open straight through, this time of night (day?) on what is technically a Sunday, the busy street noise is absent, making all of the other sounds seem more intense.

Another warm gust of wind carrying the desert heat caresses me, reminding me of her touch, as I plunge deeper into the existential crisis I have created for myself threatening to pull me under.

I have a plethora of bobby pins in my hair from a lavish updo I paid an arm and leg for (and for good reason, thirteen hours later and it is all still mainly in place) and they were only now getting to be unbearable. My overpriced Free People floor length strapless boho dress is weighing a ton. I can’t tell what is more pressing, the annoyance of the hairpins or the fact that my dress is so heavy. Or maybe it’s the weight of my life.

I absolutely wish I smoked. I genuinely just wish someone who smoked was out here with me. I peek into the lobby and think about asking the clerk if he smokes. Who am I kidding though? No one really smokes in Southern California anymore. They vape. And vaping just lacks the dramatic aesthetic I am deep in at the moment.

I look at the clerk with his textbook and highlighter behind the counter. Maybe I could use some company? But to be honest I don’t want it. I need to be alone. I crouch with my knees up and back scraping against the stucco wall and fight the urge to scream. I begin pulling the million bobby pins from my hair as I try to time my breaths with the crashing waves below me. Two crashing waves as I inhale. Three crashing waves as I exhale. Repeat. Inhale, two crashes. Exhale three crashes. I do this a few more times. It’s not helping.

All I can think about is her. I left her in the room and came out here, and I want nothing more than to be next to her. But that’s not where I need to be.

My sight is blurring as I fight the tears. I don’t like to cry. I don’t like to show much in the way of emotions. I’ve prided myself on my stoicism and ability to just handle shit. But I can’t handle this. This is all too much.

What the fuck? I’ve never felt so fucking miserable in my life. This whole weekend has been a fucking mess. Who breaks down at a wedding weekend in a swanky Orange County hotel? Me, apparently. Who throws their whole life away during a wedding? Also, right here. Me. Now I’m laughing at myself as the tears build up.

I let myself sink fully to the ground and the pile of bobby pins pooling in the mounds of fabric from this godforsaken heavy ass dress. It looked killer with my vintage Manolo Blahnik patent leather strappy sandals earlier, but now I’m barefoot and bereft and it’s breaking dawn. I felt beautiful twelve hours ago. Especially when she looked at me. When she commented on my killer shoes and how good they would look- No. Can’t think about that. I look at those shoes sitting next to me on the cobblestones. The bronze chain straps and the agate accent pieces inlaid on them pooled onto the stones. I love those damn shoes.

Now… Fuck. My. Life.

Just about twelve hours earlier, directly above where I am sitting and wallowing in the mess of my life, a couple vowed to love each other, in good times and bad, till death do they part. Good times and bad. Does rock bottom count? Because that’s where I’m sitting right now. And I don’t think that my marriage is going to make it to the till death do you part. I don’t know that I want it to.

And the goddamn ambient techno music on the speakers filtering outside from the lobby is pissing me off. Nelly Furtado’s voice is remixed and singing about how you need to say it right or something like that. Ha. Doesn’t she know it? I look up and try to manage the will to get off my ass, off the sidewalk and go back inside. I need to find my wife. I need to make things right. I can’t sit in this much longer.

I stand up, grabbing my shoes and letting the hair pins fall to the ground with a gentle tinkling as they scatter around me, and I spin on my bare feet and go to head back inside of the too bright lobby, I hear three distinct sounds behind me in quick succession. First, a whooshing sound, followed by loud cracking followed by a sickening sound.

It is a combination of sounds, actually. A heavy splat, thud, and crunching sound. I will never be able to unhear this sound. There’s no real describing that sound, or the way I know that it’s a human body falling to its death. I just know it. I don’t want to fathom it.

I turn and look and see her. I see her. I will never unsee her. Her eyes are open. Beautiful brown eyes. Brown eyes that I have looked into and sensed so many things. And they are here. Open. Unseeing. Her body is distorted and in an impossible position of twisted limbs and torso. Her head is turned and looking at me with those incredible brown eyes, though she can’t look at me. Would never see me again.

I scream. I let it all out. My shock and horror of what I am seeing and the inner turmoil that has led me outside to begin with. It’s all come bubbling to the surface and ripping out of my chest. And it isn’t stopping. “No… No…” I keep screaming. My hands are in my hair as I scream and back into the cheerfully lit lobby.

One of the hotel security guards comes flying through the lobby doors and grabs me looking down. He is clad in a black polo with ‘SECURITY’ emblazoned in white across his broad shoulders, and black utility cargo pants and combat boots. He isn’t much taller than me, but he is broad shouldered and strong. He wraps his arms around me and lifts me out of my spot and brings me inside of the lobby, closing the doors behind us by kicking the doorstop with his steel toed combat boot.

He sits me on the plush dark blue divan, shouting for the receptionist to call 911. Just a few hours ago, I was sitting in this same spot as a party raged on behind me. Now, aside from the incessant music overhead, all is quiet and calm. Except me. I’m not. I’m sobbing uncontrollably and frozen in the spot. I look at the security guard’s military haircut and mustache. His dark eyes look at me intently. He has asked me a question. But I didn’t hear it. “What?” I ask him between short breaths. “I need to get—” I’m trying to get up. I need to go back to her. She can’t really be dead.

He shakes his head and his arms hold me back. His embrace is like a steel trap. I won’t be going anywhere. “No. No… I need you to stay right here. I asked you if you are okay? What happened?”

“She… She… She… She’s dead.” I’m suddenly freezing in the blasting air conditioning that had been so refreshing earlier. “She’s dead. She fell. She’s dead.” I am shaking hard and my teeth begin chattering. Goosebumps have sprung up on my arms.

A housekeeper appears and brings me a blanket. The security guard says something to her in Spanish as he wraps the blanket around me.

People are coming out of the elevator and stairwell. An identically clad security guard begins corralling the other people somewhere else. The doors to both sides of the lobby have been shut, and I can recognize the flashing lights of an ambulance, and squad cars have arrived. Either time has stopped or they have a fairly quick response time here. I can’t tell which. My head is spinning and nothing makes sense to me. Everything is coming to me in flashes.

I can hear the other people that have been corralled talking and whispering about what they think has happened. I’m sure they were awoken by the alarm that was my screaming. I want to shout at them. This is not entertainment. (Thump. Splat. Crunch.) She’s dead. I love her and she’s dead.

I’m burrowed in the chest of my security guard. He is doing his best to comfort me and keep me calm. Peripherally I can see the receptionist let the paramedics and the cops in. The sky has lightened significantly, and the kitchen staff have finished setting up the breakfast buffet. Apparently, the death of a guest is no reason to stop working.

A paramedic approaches me and drops to her knees in front of me. “Ma’am, I’m just going to check your vitals and make sure you are okay, is that alright?”

I back away from (what I begin to think of as my security guard and nod my head). “Do you want me to stick around?” he asks.

I nod at him. “Please. I don’t think I can be alone right now.”

His brown eyes are so deep they are almost black. Hers were the color of oak, and they no longer see. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees giving the paramedic space to look me over. I am watching a crime scene photographer take pictures of her twisted and broken body. Someone places a sheet over her when they are done with the pictures.

I’m shivering again.

My blood pressure is elevated. My pulse is thready and high. My breathing is shallow. All of this is told to me by the paramedic. I want to say, “No shit. It was probably that way since before all of this.” But I don’t. I look at her with blank, dead eyes (her eyes are dead and blank now, too as she lies dead and broken on the cobblestones outside). I have no words.

“You should probably come to the hospital…” I don’t hear the rest of what she says.

“No, thank you,” I say quietly.

My security guard looks at me, concerned. “Are you sure?” he asks me as a detective approaches me.

“I understand you witnessed the fall?” he asks me as he comes to me. He looks like he just woke up. A five o’clock shadow (at five in the morning. Ha! My very broken brain smirks at this) made of salt and pepper stubble, and disheveled salt and pepper hair. Gray eyes and Southern California tanned skin. I stare at him for a moment trying to figure out what he asked me.

I close my eyes. I can hear the thump, splat, crunch sound. I shake my head. “No. I witnessed, or actually heard the landing. Not the fall.”

“The receptionist mentioned that he had seen you and the victim together throughout the weekend. You knew her?”

I stare at him dumb.

“I’m sorry. I’m Detective Alex Rossi.” He smiles at me, trying to come across as sympathetic. He sits in the armchair facing the divan. “So, the receptionist mentioned he saw you with the victim. You knew her?”

I sit up straight and try to compose myself. “It’s so complicated.”

The other detective on scene brings him a fresh brewed coffee. I am staring at it intently. Detective Rossi grabs the cup. “This is my partner, Detective Moore.”

My security guard, whose name I don’t know, looks at me and follows my line of sight. “I can grab you a cup? Would you —”

I have begun to calm myself and find my strength. I will need it to tell these detectives everything. “Please.” I look at the paramedic still kneeling in front of me. “I swear. I’m okay. I will sign off on whatever.” I relax my shoulders and exhale. I watch my well-muscled security guard walk across the floor to where the kitchen staff stand ready.

The paramedic stands and goes to a nearby table to fill out her forms and the older of the two detectives, Detective Rossi, sits down next to me. “Can we start with your name?” He has his pen and notebook ready.

“Sage Foster-Reed.”

“And you knew the victim how?”

I am handed a mug of coffee and I grip the mug tightly, letting the heat soak through the ceramic into my hands. “You are going to need more paper than that notebook for me to explain this.”

He smiles at me. “The best kind of statements. I got time. Tell me however you need to explain.”

“It starts on Thursday. Thursday morning. You might think some of this doesn’t matter, but it all does…”